


The Prince and the Death

by DustOnBothSides



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Filthy Armitage Hux, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Armitage Hux, Kylo Ren in a Skirt, M/M, Prince Ben Organa, Princess Rey, gibetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 05:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustOnBothSides/pseuds/DustOnBothSides
Summary: A long war between two countries has ended. One of its foremost generals was captured and sentenced to a slow death. Nevertheless the Fate wasn't much kinder to his captor, whose fury and aptitude for violence frightened even his mother. Are the two of them condemned to oblivion, or is there a way out?





	The Prince and the Death

**Author's Note:**

> Best enjoyed while listening to Wagner, Penderecki, and Warsaw Village Band.

Pipes shrieked and horns blared. 

Another song has begun. 

Even though it was close to midnight, the town was alive and filled with lights. Every man, woman, and child was out in the streets, in their best clothes and spirits. Everyone who knew at least the basics of playing an instrument has joined in the music-making. Housewives made sure everyone was well fed down to the meanest beggar and scruffiest orphan. Merchants opened barrels of wine and casks of mead. Even cripples danced and widows laughed that night. Fires burned everywhere and the town was full of delicious scents of roasting pigs, sheep, donkeys, and gamebirds, of baking gingerbreads and poppy pies, of rosewater and jasmine essence sprinkled on the napes and wrists of pretty young girls. 

The bronze starbird of Chieftainess Organa’s crest could be seen on almost every step, wreathed in garlands of flowers, wheat, and wild grasses. Every house was marked with it as well as with the indigo and white hand of Ullyxittas, the goddess of mercy and healing. The fact that both sigils were displayed side-by-side only heightened the heady, almost euphoric cheer of the city-wide feast. 

But there were horrors out there. 

So many. 

The spiked palisade enclosing the settlement had almost twenty feet in height for a reason, and the horrors skulking in the woods were as real as they’ve been before. Gluuu, the fish-eyed stealer of sight. Hrau, also called _The One Made of Teeth_. Shaulys the Violating, daughter of primordial night. The Damp Dancers, emissaries of the Fallen One. They and their vile spawn. Nevertheless, that night they all cowered in their caves and dens, unnerved by such a remarkable burst of happiness from the town they’ve kept praying on for generations, as lands outside were decimated by wars and blights. 

For the first time in living memory the night did not belong to its demons, but to the children of light. 

As for the humans, everyone cheered and danced, drank and ate. Old grievances were forgiven, new alliances forged, hastily arranged marriages consummated. This was not _just_ about celebrating the end of a protracted war, about putting a distance between the hopeful present and the blood-drenched past. This was something more. 

Amidst all those thousands of people born high and low, there was one particular person who was left cold by all those shows of joy. 

He did not dance and he did not sing, he wasn’t offered even a slice of bread or a sip of water, let alone the warming mead and heady wine everyone else poured down their throats. 

He was half-sitting, half-standing in a hanging cage, dangling about four feet above the ground. The cage was too tight for him, and many parts of his body have long since grown numb. He considered that a good thing. The rest that wasn’t numb _hurt_. Hurt and stung and burned and itched. He had been stripped of his clothes and his nudity was covered only by a coarse hairshirt which chafed at his skin and irritated his open sores and burns. 

He frowned at all those fires and frolicking dancers. 

“Hey!” he tried to yell at a nearby guard, who was busy stuffing his face with a slice of garlicked pork belly. “Hey, you! You goat-knowing brute!”

His voice was still hoarse even though it had been three days since they hung him up there. The only reason he was still alive was the fruitful rain. He both blessed and cursed it. 

“Whaddaya wan’, you nasty ginger prick?!” the guard roared and threw a tin plate at the cage. 

“What is being celebrated?” 

“_What? _” the guard yelled, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Your imenen’ def, the princess’s succus-… _sukor-… suck-secks-or-ship_, and the prince’s marriage. Bu’ I’m mos’ly happy about your def. I’mmahgonna pissh on your rotting face once the rats have eaten yereyes out.”

“Wasn’t Ren much older than the girl? How come she’s becoming the crown princess?”

“Cus… _She’s stronger! An’ people like ‘er more! And the chieftainess said so, so shuf the fuf up! _” the guard slurred and threw his tankard as well. The rest of the mead it contained hit the prisoner in the face. The disgraced general tried to lick up as much of it as possible in hopes of becoming at least a little bit intoxicated and speeding his death up. 

He didn’t exactly blame the guard for his attitude. Or the rest of these merrymaking folks for pelting him with rocks, rotten vegetables, and dog carcasses. Had he been given just few more squads at his disposal, several more longbows, if the men he had commanded were only a little bit more courageous, then _he_’d be celebrated here by _his_ people, and all these folks would be his serfs at best. And since he knew how fanatically loyal these people were to their chieftainess, he’d probably have the more important ones sacrificed to the gods and the rest killed and burned. And the lands divided among his own people. Organa’s peasants knew obviously _nothing _of crops rotation, so he would make sure that at the very least their ashes would fertilize the land. 

Still. 

Too bad about everything. 

About his father abandoning him and Snoke removing his support. 

If only he had found out about their betrayal earlier, and not in the midst of a battle. His mind would’ve been clear enough for him to put his own sword through his breast and die with honour. 

Not like this. 

He had to laugh. Father was right after all. Born a bastard, die a bastard’s death. 

He tried to lie down, but the cage was too small, and also furnished with smalls spikes. 

He hated this world. 

Hated it so much. 

Hated it for allowing him to be captured and all his plans to come to naught after _ages_ of devising. 

For all those humiliations he had to endure at Snoke’s court, often incited by his own father. 

For allowing Chieftainess Sloane, his only ally, to die a pitiful death in some back alley.

For allowing him to be born. 

He imagined the sigil of Luurgha the Hope-bringer as vividly as he could - and then spat on it. He had prayed to her as a child beaten black and blue, as a teen watching first his mother and then Rae be laid to rest. Now he knew. Luurgha was not a goddess, she was a demon. A vile demoness, the cruellest of them all. He hoped that the Father of Maggots, Blougyugld, would find her and violate her on a pile of manure once the End of Days would arrive. 

He tried to sleep, but the music got louder. 

In fact, it seemed to approach him. 

He closed his eyes and tried to close his ears as well, but his hands were shackled too close together. As the music grew louder, his head started to pound. He hadn’t had a bite to eat in over three days and his last drink were the few sips of rainwater he managed to catch before the guards banged at his cage with an iron pole. 

And then it suddenly got bright. 

_Too_ bright. 

He opened his eyes, and there he was, with an impressive crowd in his wake. His subduer, Kylo Ren, which was the battle name of none other than prince Ben Organa. The soon-to-be groom was dressed in a fine linen shirt embroidered with golden leaves and a pleated kilt of black broadcloth, and he was crowned with a wreath of yarrow and clover, of goutweed and meadowsweet. White flowers. Odd. White was the colour of death. The colour of marriage was red. Everyone knew that. But then again, Organa’s people were a bunch of simpletons. 

Armitage just sighed and tried to lean against the cage. 

Kylo Ren was known for his rages. Perhaps he was there to beat him to death and ease his suffering. Armitage knew from experience how hard his fists were. 

Suddenly the prince tore the flower crown from his head, and the crowd went quiet. Musicians stilled their hands, singers closed their mouths. It almost seemed that everyone forgot how to breathe. And then-

_ “No, Ben! You **can’t** do that!” _

The chieftainess herself arrived, with crown princess Rey in pursuit. She was visibly disturbed. Her usually meticulously braided hair was in disarray, eyes glittered like a pair of marbles. 

Kylo gave his mother a look overflowing with bitterness. 

“I can’t? You’re wrong, mother. I can. It is very much within my rights.”

“You can have anyone, _ anyone_ you-“

“No, mother. Chieftainess. You made the decision. You had to realise its consequences. I am being married off to death, so sister here can take up the crown without any fear of a succession crisis. And if I’m being married off to death, then I’ll choose the most beautiful death I know.”

_ “No, Ben!” _ Organa yelled as Kylo Ren threw his flower crown at the feet of the bastard Armitage.

In spite of the chieftainess’s anguish, the music blared with renewed enthusiasm and the crowd burst into cheers. Only Chieftainess Organa buried her face in her hands, and crown princess Rey stared at her half-brother with undiluted horror, half-supporting their mother. 

Before he knew what was happening, Armitage was hauled out of the cage and Kylo Ren’s white wedding wreath was placed on his head. He started to laugh. Quietly. In a broken way. He was an outcast, less than a serf. His body was a collection of all manner of wounds. He stank of human waste - his own excretions he was forced to let simply fall through the cage and other people’s he had been pelted with. His captors had branded his chest with the mark of a demon. And the strongest warrior of the realm just proclaimed him his husband. 

If that wasn’t funny, then what was?

Unfortunately, the joke was on him. 

His head swam as he tried to keep himself standing.

He wasn’t sure whether Kylo Ren would spend the next couple of days raping him only to abandon him to the wolves, whether he’d sell him to the man-eating _spagglawoy_, who habitually blinded and maimed their human breeding stock, or if the fate kept something even viler in stock for him, but suddenly he longed for the safety and the easy death of the hanging cage. 

_Luurgha, I hope that at the End of Days, Gorroktys will impale you on the spiked lingam of the sky-earth worm_, he thought to himself. 

And then Kylo Ren kissed him. 

Their lips met. Kylo’s tasted like honey and mead, while he knew his own had to taste of rot and vomit. And so he opened them and let Kylo’s tongue explore inside, fully intent on dragging the prince down into the filth he was in. He… something in him must’ve gotten broken, for as Kylo kissed him, as his hands travelled oh-so treacherously _softly_ all over his hairshirt-covered back, his own body _responded_. 

He kissed back. 

His first kiss. 

So funny. 

The remainder of his strength left him and he fell unconscious. In the arms of the one who had tried to kill him on numerous occasions. So funny. Before he drifted off completely, he wished Kylo Ren would take him then and there, in front of everyone. In front of his mother and sister. So they’d fully realise they’ve lost their mightiest warrior. Forever. 

But at the end he just wished Kylo Ren would find enough mercy in him to snap his neck. The fact that this did not happen was another proof that this world was too rotten to be allowed to continue. 

He stirred as his consciousness returned. 

His whole body was enveloped by the silky softness of pelts which smelled of apples. A fire was crackling nearby, and someone was plucking at the strings of a lute. He recognised the melody as _ the Chambermaid’s Sarabande_, though the musician made some changes to it that made it sound somehow sweeter. 

_Aah, so he_ did _kill me after all_, Hux thought to himself. _He killed me and now I am in heaven. What are the odds? _

He always wanted to wake up like this. On a soft bed as opposed to the hard cot back at the Scaparus Keep father had forced onto him in order to _ ‘toughen him up’_. That bed with its one inch thick mattress that smelled of mould and always felt a little damp. 

Still.

He didn’t expect ending up in heaven, because some acts he had done or ordered could’ve been considered heinous. He saw them for what they were and knew he couldn’t eschew them. Scaparus Keep wasn’t a place for soft hearts. 

But gods weren’t sympathetic to such reasons. 

The best Armitage could hope for was Limbo, and even that was probably too optimistic. 

Thus this couldn’t’ve been heaven. Which meant he didn’t die. 

He sat up

He found himself in a neat room with white walls covered by tapestries and pelts. Kylo Ren sat in one of the window bays. It was him who was playing the lute. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Armitage asked and climbed out of the bed. He limped towards Kylo, disregarding his own nudity. 

“…_that_? You have to be a bit more specific, General Hux.” 

“Why am I…. Why haven’t you… How… am I not dead?”

Kylo arched an eyebrow. “Dead? Why would I want you dead?”

“You seemed pretty set on it several days ago, when you almost bifurcated me.” Armitage growled and touched a long, scabbed cut stretching from his right armpit to his left hip. 

“Well, your spear got _me_ pretty good as well.” The dark-haired prince remarked and rubbed his left side. “Nevertheless. You are now my husband. My death. And I am planning to cherish you.” He added and pulled Armitage close. His fingers traced the smooth surface of a torque Armitage hadn’t realised he was wearing. They were matching, their torques. They weren’t made out of gold or copper or bronze, as befitted the jewellery of a high-born wedded couple, no. A band of solid steel was coiled around their necks, inlaid with strange lumps of a coarse, black mineral. 

“…cherish me…?” Armitage repeated, marvelling at the odd taste of those words. Who in the world would cherish him? A bastard; a runt with the hair of the Thrice-Damned Traitor. 

“Yes. Cherish you.” Kylo said in a strange tone. For some reason it put goosebumps on Armitage’s arms. 

“Married to death. That means you are now…”

“Yes. Unwanted. Unneeded. Funny… if our parents had even a smidgeon of sense, they would’ve betrothed us, but no. Bad blood is bad blood. I have given up on you, but then I was blessed with this opportunity. And I’ve used it. Sister got my kingdom, may ravens pluck her eyes out; but I got _you_.” 

Armitage felt blood rushing into his face. 

“Do… do you actually _like_ me?” he asked incredulously. 

Kylo just chuckled and pulled his husband even closer. 

Second kiss. Only their second kiss and Armitage’s lips opened way too eagerly. He wanted to feel angry, but couldn’t quite recall how to construct this feeling. 

“You agree then? Agree to me become mine, just as I’ll become yours?”

“…It beats gibbeting, I suppose.”

Kylo burst out in quiet laughter which he stifled against Armitage’s shoulder. 

“…and you have a sense of humour as well. Wonderful. Nevertheless, dearest Armitage, it is still our wedding night. I had you washed and your wounds dressed. I took a bath myself and had my wounds looked at. We have to leave by morning, but now, if you agree, we will consummate our marriage.”

Armitage couldn’t help but stiffen at those words, and not in the way Kylo would’ve preferred. 

Still, the prince just laughed and rubbed circles into the small of Armitage’s back. 

“Don’t worry. I know you are still weak and unwell. I’ll have you lay back while I pleasure you.” He locked Armitage in an embrace so warm it left the bastard general confused as to what he had done to deserve this kind of treatment. 

Then Kylo hoisted Armitage up in his strong arms, carried him back on the bed, and laid him down onto the soft pelts. 

“Ah… what am I supposed to…?” Armitage muttered, hoping his face was not too red. 

“You’ve never been with another, I see.” Kylo nodded to himself and placed a small kiss on Armitage’s clavicle. What a strange place to kiss. “What are you supposed to do? You are to enjoy it, hopefully. And if you do, you are to crave more...” Another kiss, this time on Armitage’s chest. Warm, wet tongue brushed against the nipple. Was that his voice moaning? It couldn’t be. “…and you are to demand more. As will I.”

Kylo kissed a trail down Armitage’s belly, and once he reached that place between his thighs, Armitage’s soft, barely suppressed sighs became steadily rising moans. He couldn’t understand how did this make him feel so good. Why did anyone put an effort into making him experience a pleasure this sweet. Before he knew it, one of Kylo’s fingers somehow entered him and brushed against a certain spot, and Armitage stopped thinking altogether. He buried his fingers in that soft, thick hair and surrendered to his new husband more thoroughly than ever before. 

Dawn arrived and a thick fog with it. 

The prince and the general both got on their horses and trotted towards the northern gate. 

Armitage wished they’d never have to leave those pelts, but such was life. They had to go. Kylo explained to him that the death-marrying custom made him a stranger to the people, and his choice in husband a stranger to his family. Which he was rather happy about, he admitted. 

He reached out with his hand. Armitage took it. They’ve passed through the Gate of the Hearse, and just like that they were out of the town. 

Just like that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm itching to make this short story into something longer, but I'm already swamped in WIPs. Perhaps one day...
> 
> All kudos and comments will be greatly appreciated.


End file.
